


tattoos

by bloosie



Series: johndave blurbs [4]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-27
Updated: 2017-10-27
Packaged: 2019-01-23 21:06:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12516576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloosie/pseuds/bloosie
Summary: "soulmate au where you have to find someone with a matching tattoos that's a combination of what you and your soulmate love | and if it disappears your soulmate has died" from a tumblr ask





	tattoos

**Author's Note:**

> i made it johndave because i have a johndave blog on tumblr
> 
> implied rosemary soul mates but kanaya dies, her death isn't... described so don't worry
> 
> also dave's nickname later in the story is because i'm obsessed with bromosapiens dot tumblr dot com

Your whole life, you had seen people with tattoos on their wrists. Left, right, their entire arm. You didn’t want to admit it, but you were kind of jealous. You had a couple of friends who were born with the tattoos, but you didn’t have one. Sure, you were interested in people, but they had tattoos and you were despairingly bare. 

One could imagine your joy, then, when you woke up with a beautiful, bold, black mark on your wrist. It was one image, an eighth note, and you practically flew from your bed to the kitchen to show your dad the most lovely thing you’d ever lain eyes on. 

You were dismissed with an ever so slight shake of the head and a, “That’s nice, son. You need to get ready for school.”

Mood. Crushed. Maybe your tattoo wasn’t as significant as it should have been, or as grand. Maybe it was childish, but you were disappointed by your dad’s reaction. You had expected him to be proud, maybe excited for you, as you entered the phase in your life where you searched for your soulmate. 

You were only seven now, after all. You played your piano every day, and when you weren’t playing music, you were listening to some assortment of it. Your dad always played classical music around the house.

You trudged through school that day with your head down, defeated still from the morning’s interaction with your dad. 

 

You were thirteen, and you were coming to hate your beautiful black eighth note. Your friends thought it was stupid, and your father very clearly didn’t care for it. Apparently, music wasn’t a good enough common interest for anyone. You had hidden it for five years so far from your best friend, telling him he would think it was stupid or something of the sorts. 

In gym class, you were the only one that hid every day, changing in the stall and wearing a stupid, tacky wristband when you couldn’t wear long sleeves. In Washington, it was easy to hide in your sleeves. 

After school, you would talk to your friends online about anything and everything, except for that. Your friend Rose, whom you found out was your best friend’s cousin, called Dave and you while you were both in school one day, but your guardians were understanding enough to allow you to leave early. Her tattoo, which you had never seen pictures of, had turned the color of blood before fading to a white scar that morning. 

You spent the afternoon searching for news articles about kids your age dying, and stumbled across an image of a pretty Italian girl, her long-sleeved black t-shirt just short enough on her arms that when, in the picture, she brushed her short black hair out of her face, a burst of gold ink decorated her creamy skin. When you sent the article to Rose, she screamed and sobbed over voice chat.

Her mother brought her to see Dave and his brother, thinking that people nearer to her age would help her heal. Rose told you she had never met the girl, but her heart shattered the moment she saw the image. Her own tattoo, scarred into her skin but void of all ink and recognition, was a sorrowful reminder that things could always be worse for you.

 

You were eighteen, in the passenger seat of your best friend’s car. The windows were rolled down, you were on the highway, your arms outstretched with your right out the window, and for the first time in the ten years you had known each other, your shirt slipped on your arm. The eighth note you had come to hate stared him in the face, but you didn’t even notice. 

You bobbed your head to his music, Watsky in your ears and the sun shining softly on your face as it set. The sky was a gorgeous array of colors as the day drew its end, drowning itself on the horizon. Rose Lalonde and your own cousin, Jade Harley, filled the back seat with long limbs.

Rose was built like a cat, lithe and slim, packing strength under her sleek exterior. She knew loss you could never dream of, yet she still found her way through the world. Jade was stocky, with thick, muscular legs, and a sturdy torso. Her hair was a jungle, a wild beauty incomparable to the tamed forests you grew up with. She was quite possibly the bravest person you knew, and definitely the most selfless.

You four drove south, toward the city of angels. It was your last summer together before you parted for college, and you were spending a weekend with your favorite people in the universe before the inevitable partings.

 

You were twnety-three, and your entire being ached. You shared an apartment with David Strider, and for the first time in the fifteen years you had known him, you caught a glimpse of the man’s left wrist. He was left handed. You should have seen it before now, since he literally used his left hand for everything. 

Your heart stopped, then started beating at a mile a minute. You stopped breathing, you were going to have to find the inhaler you hadn’t needed in years, but you just. Couldn’t. You couldn’t find a breath of air that fit your lungs. You were definitely hyperventilating, and absolutely overreacting. 

Platonic soulmates weren’t the weirdest thing, you’d seen it often. Your acquaintances Nepeta and Equius were the closest pair you’d ever met, with matching tattoos, and harbored absolutely no romantic feelings for each other.

You got the feeling that you and David were not, in fact, platonic soulmates, though. Not with the way your heart had fluttered and you were quick to blush anytime you were near him in the last five years, nor with the fact that he had never seemed to show any interest in possible suitors with tattoos that matched his interests. 

 

You were twenty-six, and you still shared a place, but now you were a genetic biologist and your proper title was Dr. Egbert instead of Mr. Egbert. The house you lived in now was simple, but big enough to house you both more comfortably and a guest if need be. A couple years back, Dave had requested you start calling him Avi, so you rolled with it.

You got home after an exceptionally long day, and smiled to yourself upon seeing Avi’s car. Why he insisted on driving a Chevy Equinox, you would never know, but it had great gas mileage, and he seemed to love it. You loved everything about him, if you were going to be honest about it.

The first room you checked when you walked through the door was the guest bedroom, where Avi kept all of his loose photography and any current projects when you weren’t due to have any visitors. The closet had been turned into a makeshift dark room, even though you could definitely afford to make a better area for it in the house. 

On the bed was a very frustrated man with white-blonde hair, and a shitty picture of the two of you, taken by some innocent third party. Your arm was draped around Avi’s neck, and his was around your waist. Your grin could have lit the moon, but you weren’t looking at the camera when the picture was taken. 

In a tone that left no room for self-defense, Avi demanded to know why you ruined a perfectly good moment. His wrists were facing the ceiling on his knees from his spot on the bed, and you could see in plain sight what you almost never had the opportunity to feast your eyes on, but almost never stopped thinking about. 

A beautiful, bold, black eighth note teased your eyes, gracing his milky skin. It stood out more starkly than on your tan skin, but you had grown to love both equally. 

You sat across from him on the bed, folding your legs under you. For the second time in eighteen years, you pulled back your long-sleeved shirt to expose the exact same black ink on your wrist. 

“I think I might be in love with you, stupid.”

**Author's Note:**

> trying a new style with very little dialogue........ and lots of words................... also trying my hand at john egbert


End file.
